


Poetry

by Cardinal_Perplexus



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Illiteracy, Learning to read, M/M, Poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-09
Updated: 2015-06-09
Packaged: 2018-04-03 13:48:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4103194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cardinal_Perplexus/pseuds/Cardinal_Perplexus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fenris likes poetry.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Poetry

**Author's Note:**

> I didn't mean to write this? It kinda just happened??
> 
> These assholes are taking over my life send help.

 He wasn't going to admit it, but Hawke had done well with the book selection, that first night.

Aside from the velum, quills, and ink, he had chosen a few books, seemingly at random. But nothing that mage ever did was random.

He had put three books on the desk that first night, encouraging him to chose one to start with before they worked up to the _Canticle of Shartan_. First was a rebound copy of a rather battered children's book Bethany had tried to bring with them, all the way from Lothering. Fenris flipped through it to be polite, but found himself lingering, looking at the scuffed pages. Garrett had said something about it being Bethany's favorite, leaving him to endure nightly demands to read it aloud and read it again, until the twins fell asleep.

The last few pages were stiff with dried blood and darkspawn ichor.

Fenris had set it aside. It was too personal and from a family, something he never had. He couldn't read it. Not in front of Garrett.

The second one had been an academic tome of sorts, something that Carver had gotten in the city. It was full of diagrams and descriptions of various swords and techniques to use with other two-handed weaponry.

He set that one aside, too. He had spent years of his life being trained as a bodyguard, with a weapon taller than he was. Why read if he didn't learn something new?

The final book had caught his attention. It was full of words, had no pictures, but had a surprising amount of blank space in the pages, between the lines. And more often than not, only the left half of the page had been used. It intrigued him. He had never seen anything like it.

When he asked, Hawke said it was a book of poetry.

But what would a mage do with a book of poetry? Wasn't poetry for lovestruck fools? Or people too self-important to realize that they were just bitter, and not the geniuses they claimed to be?

Fenris had looked at him, only to point to a few lines and demand the mage read them.

They were about death.

Then, he asked Hawke to read the rest of the poem to him.

Days later, Fenris found himself asking Varric about poetry, over drinks at the Hanged Man. After a bit of teasing, the dwarf had tried to explain poetry to him, comparing the concepts to his own work, before giving the elf a quick overview of the various types of poems one could find in books. Fenris had kept his face impassive, mulling over the idea of such work, before Varric brought out his deck of cards for a quick round of Wicked Grace.

But everything was poetry, wasn't it? Poetry was the feeling, the action, the images the words brought, not just the ink on a page.

A poet could say “Death is before me today, like the odor of myrrh, like sitting under a sail in a good wind,” and the words would hang in the air, shaping wonders.  
And he could respond “Death is with me today, I show her where to go, not as a servant, but an old friend.”

The sound of steel on steel was poetry. The sight of blood on his gauntlets was poetry. Cries of victory were poetry.

Wine was poetry. Broken bottles were poetry. Screams from nightmares that broke cold winter nights were also poetry.

The words he traced into Garrett's skin were poetry.

Things like “love” and “home” and “yours,” burned red in his mind, red as the favor he wore on his wrist, red as the Amell crest at his hip, and red as the paint across Hawke's nose.

He would never show him what he wrote in his journal, the one he had stolen from Garrett's desk, long before they had ever lain together, long before he was even sure he could write a single word without feeling the burning shame of years of illiteracy.

He would never show him, but he had to already know.   
Most of the words were about him, anyway.  


End file.
